THE MATADOR

Waters come in
from winter, bothering again
with the earth,
who has shrunken
small as a skull.
Waters filling the dust,
the bed.
I do not fear my time.
Waters seep
and are dried.
Women drink, and cry.

I will drink tonight,
if I may, if I am alive,
to the great pith
of my enemy,
to his four tiny feet.
On a red night, we were brothers,
both lying awake
in our dreams. I was a boy
still, wrestling the goat,
I tore my sleeve;
he had the comfort of a field,
the green desert of his memory.

It is not war which harms a man.
It is not death which kills a man.
It is not these
timid things waking me.

By a thread, Madrid,
for a season,
will see her ladies speak of me
at other tables, indiscreetly,
their wine tipping into
their plates, the cat
sleeping at their feet.


Simone dos Anjos
The St. Lawrence Book Award
The St. Lawrence Book Award
The St. Lawrence Book AwardThe St. Lawrence Book AwardThe St. Lawrence Book Award
The St. Lawrence Book Award
The Adirondack Review
SIMONE DOS ANJOS is currently writing a collection of short stories. Artistic influences include James Joyce, Gabriel García Márquez, Emile Zola, and Nicanor Villalta. Simone is co-editor of The Modern Review. This is her second appearance in The Adirondack Review.